


the gods must think it funny

by ifuckboyswhofuckgirls (cadmiumredvulpini)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cave sex, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Incest, M/M, dream fucking, peripheral fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5156069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmiumredvulpini/pseuds/ifuckboyswhofuckgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The gods must think it funny.</i><br/> </p><p>  <i>That in an army camp somewhere near Riverrun, Jeyne Westerling lies on her stomach, her breasts peeking out of her dress as Robb Stark plunges into her, holding her by her hips and kissing the brown strands of her curly, curly hair.</i><br/> </p><p>  <i>And in a cave north of the wall, Ygritte the wildling is in the same position, her stomach to the stone and her breasts against the rock, Jon Snow fucking her against the walls of the cave, his hands on her hips and his lips on her red, red hair.</i><br/> </p><p><i>In their minds they would never do it like that, they would always face each other.</i> Always.</p><p>Beware <b>actual heterosexual intimacy</b> woven into the romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the gods must think it funny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neliore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/gifts).



> _Fucking hysterical is what it is._  
>     
> Pity the only chances for my OTP to fuck is before the events AGOT. So, they can't have it. But they will want it, oh will they want it.
> 
> Thanks to Neliore who assured me that my incestuous homosexual feelings for Jon and Robb were perfectly normal. And made me love Theon, eventually.

The gods must think it funny.

That in an army camp somewhere near Riverrun, Jeyne Westerling lies on her stomach, her breasts peeking out of her dress as Robb Stark plunges into her, holding her by her hips and kissing the brown strands of her curly, curly hair.

And in a cave north of the wall, Ygritte the wildling is in the same position, her stomach to the stone and her breasts against the rock, Jon Snow fucking her against the walls of the cave, his hands on her hips and his lips on her red, red hair.

In their minds they would never do it like that, they would always face each other. Always.

\--

“I think you need a haircut,” 

Jon Snow swings his blade at the wildling, missing her face only by a few inches. Ygritte laughs. 

“I think you need to shut up, because I will hit you.” He growls.

Jon strikes again, the space between the tip of his sword and the skin of Ygritte’s nose only an inch. The redhead spits on the cold metal, and then brings Jon Snow down with a low, sweeping kick.

“You should shut up,” She says, and then breathes, watching the man get up on his feet. “You were the one who couldn’t stop moaning last night.”

Jon blushes, and Ygritte only punches him in the arm. She leaves to check on her rabbit snares and he sits on a tall rock beside a pool of warm spring water.

He recalls their previous night’s tryst, the images surrendering to him in vivid colors and sensations and scents, of red hair and flush skin, of white hot pleasure and guilty desires, of berries and spice and spring water scent. But he does not see Ygritte. He does not remember the echoes of her voice in the cave or the kiss they share afterward. No, he remembers Winterfell.

He remembers warm, down feather pillows and candlelight and oil. He remembers guilt and pleasure boiling into one, he remembers Robb.

The heir of Winterfell, sprawled underneath him, decadent and divine, his legs parted, giving way to a treasure buried in deep red fur and hot, flush skin. Jon remembers kneeling before him, beneath the red leaves and white branches of the weirwood tree, to worship his god. His one, true god who offered himself to him completely, so readily and lovingly.

Jon remembers goosebumps and soft skin and rough, calloused hands, but they don’t belong. They aren’t Ygritte’s.

The pliant body beneath his own is hard and buff and smells of sweat and musk and berries and Robb, Robb, Robb. He remembers chanting, no, singing, a melody of only one lyric. He remembers his pitch rising until his apex, he remembers a duet. 

Robb moaning his name, Jon, Jon, Jon, like it was a prayer, his sweat beading on his forehead like he was testifying to the gods, like he was kneeling beneath the weirwood and Jon would bend down to kiss him, to absolve him of all sin. And Robb would sing his name, would call for Jon to come closer, to beg the gods of only one thing and Jon remembers fire.

Jon remembers white hot flames searing the edges of his vision, red and yellow flickering at his skin, teasing, licking, until they consume him whole. Jon remembers the red of Robb’s hair and the yellow of the candlelight, and the flame that burns between them. The flames singe their skin and leave them with tattoos of their love, a bruise, red tender skin, or the imprint of teeth.

Jon remembers howling, of the night shattering as their voices reached crescendo, as they sang each other’s name into their mouths as they collided. He remembers the warm, southern salt sea washing over them, and pulling himself against Robb’s body to anchor himself. He remembers their tears, and his eyes like the clear water of the sapphire islands, like the piercing blue of the ice and the frozen pond at the godswood where they pray to their false gods, blue that was only Robb’s.

And he remembers the kingsroad, rough and warm and firm beneath their feet, like Robb’s voice when he promises Jon forever, when he promises Jon his soul, his body, his heart. 

And Jon remembers farewell. The birds flocking as the bears and animals of the cold retreat to their caves to sleep the winter, the long, long punishing winter of goodbyes. The agonizing cold of the air that seeps into the roots of the trees into the depths of the lakes and rivers, into the hearts of men.

But the weirwood’s roots are impenetrable by ice. They are strong and Jon kneels before them to ask for the same strength. Jon remembers no one answering him but Robb, his one, true god, Robb, whose red hair and strong body are his only temple. Jon remembers the crips leaves of the godswood beneath his knees and he remembers how they sound against his back, when his god descends upon him and he prays even harder.

But Jon is a heretic. He leaves for the wall where his god has no power, where only the weirwoods can stand and only seven gods to worship. Where monsters meet men and men are monsters beyond the wall. Where there is no Robb.

“Thinkin’ hard about what we should do tonight?” A wildling woman draws him out of his reverie. Parts him from his Robb. And for one blind, raging moment he wants to strike her, to punish her and deliver his god’s justice upon her.

But he remembers Ygritte. Not in the night when she moans nor when she’s against him filling him with guilty lies of love, no, but as she originally was, and should always be in Jon’s eyes—a savage prisoner, bound in chains and crude and dirty, and when Jon Snow was still loyal to his god. 

But he is a heretic. He has consummated with a woman who is not his god, who is a demon who masquerades and plays a false god with her red hair and taut lips. Jon is a heretic, but Ygritte is a liar, and a treacherous falsifier.

In a moment of clarity, Jon forces a smile through and lights the pile of sticks on the ground on fire. The smoke is bitter and Ygritte remarks how the sound of him coughing out the fumes sounded similar to the sounds he made the previous night.

“Do you remember last night?” She says again, gnawing on her lower lip, her eyes bowed and dark, in her base, crude form of seduction. Nothing like Robb, nothing like Jon’s true god.

And, oh, Jon remembers the previous night vividly, but he does not remember Ygritte.

\--

“Why are you waking me up?”

Jeyne’s voice is only the slightest irritated. At best, she’s still very much fond of her newlywed husband, who wakes her up in the middle of the night for—

“Fucking.” Robb says, grinning like a fool. His eyes are wide and bright (but they aren’t seeing Jeyne, no, not Jeyne Westerling.)

Jeyne laughs, and Robb’s not sure if it’s a feint, and there’s a short, dreadful moment where she pauses, as if considering it, and Robb is shaking with nervousness. But he can’t lose this opportunity, can’t lose the vivid dream he’s had of his brother returning for him, of them reuniting after the war, where they live out the rest of their happy days in Winterfell.

Robb can’t lose this. It’s the last thing he’s fighting for.

Jeyne Westerling (Stark, Stark, Robb reminds himself) tilts her head. It’s a yes.

Robb almost jumps at her. He closes his eyes and surges forward, his lips meeting Jeyne’s. _Too soft_ , he thinks, but he kisses her anyway. And his hands find her neck and too slim, his mind supplies, but he holds her there anyway.

She moans out loud, voicing her pleasure but Robb kisses her fiercer then, quieting her. Robb moans just then, had his mouth not been impeded it would have sounded something like Jon. But Jeyne’s mouth is on his _(no, he can’t think about that—he can’t.)_

But Jeyne lies back down on the bed and Robb struggles to follow, and Jeyne’s debauched image of deep brown curls tousled around her face comes into view.

Her sweet, pretty face detracts him, and Jon slips from him just like that, and he feels himself soften. Feels himself lose fervor, but Jeyne, this time, kisses him back, guiding Robb’s hands to her hair.

And Robb holds her there like there was no tomorrow. Like he will lose him all over again. Like he’ll let Jon slide through his fingers, because Robb knows the next chance he gets _(if there ever will be a next chance, but Robb prays every night, he knows he does)_ will be his last. 

And Robb doesn’t let go, sinks his nose into her curls and kisses her forehead (too small, too cold,) and then sinks back down to her lips _(too soft, too small.)_ Robb pushes her against the headboard, the back of her head resting against the wood. Robb doesn’t let go. He kisses Jeyne like it’s not her, and her moaning grows louder.

But her voice is not what he hears. The voice he hears is not hers, no, could never be hers. And Jeyne moves her head past Robb’s and Jon’s voice comes out, _only Jon’s voice._

“Fuck me,” Jon says, in Jeyne’s voice, and Jeyne’s body. And Robb is too happy to oblige, his smile unrestrained and manic. 

Jeyne looks away, either feigning shame or because she has a blush on her cheeks or for whatever reason, and she exposes her shoulder in a swift movement, the cool skin stretched taut over her collarbones, across her chest, her shoulder. _(Too bony, too thin, too cold.)_

Robb takes advantage of this, tilting his neck and adjusting his body so he would fit right into Jeyne’s (Jon’s) body. Feel her curls against his face, hold her body close, Jon’s body, Jon’s hair, Jon’s skin.

But Robb cannot hold back anymore, and he takes the bottle of oil with shaking hands and dips two of his fingers in, feeling the warm liquid envelop his hot, hot skin. And he imagines Jon sprawled beneath him, his chest to the furs, and Jeyne does so easily, imitating his vision. 

And he wraps his fingers around his length, coating himself in the slick liquid and he watches Jeyne turn around to see what he does. 

Jon would say something, would make a snarky comment or a witty remark, something like “winter is coming, robb stark,” to tell him he’s slow, or “savor the summer, brother,” if he’s going too fast. 

Nothing like what Jeyne Westerling says when he sees him stroking himself, Robb’s face contorting into an expression of pure pleasure. His lips form Jon’s name just as Jeyne says: "you're so big…”

And maybe Jon would say that too, maybe, albeit teasingly. While Robb’s cock was in his mouth or maybe while Robb was fucking him into the mattress.

But Robb cannot hold back any longer than he has already, and he nods for Jeyne to ready herself and she parts her thighs, and Robb inhales deeply. He sees Jon curling and keeling against his strong body, his curls over his face, and when Robb mounts Jeyne and buries his face in her curls and moans as he slides in with little difficulty, he hears Jon’s voice (not Jeyne’s, never Jeyne’s. Only Jon’s.) 

“Harder, my King.” And Robb can imagine Jon telling him that, with amusement in his voice, but it would be rough. Because Robb knows Jon can’t hold on to his composure for long, knows he’ll be begging for Robb to fuck him harder, faster, and soon enough…

“Faster, Robb. Faster, please,” Jeyne (Jon) says, and Robb can see Jon squirming under him, as Robb hits him in all the right places and at this point, Jeyne’s voice is too loud, too high-pitched, too...too not Jon’s.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Robb chants, knowing Jon’s name would be out of place here, would be indecent, would be wrong. “…J…Jo…Jeyne…” He forces himself to whisper, and as he thrusts harder his head bows lower, closer to Jeyne’s curls… Jon’s curls.

“Robb, Robb, Robb,” He hears Jon call him, hears it through Jeyne’s high voice as he delivers the king’s justice on her. She is a heretic. She is a seductress, a succubus, she is indecent, she is wrong. 

Robb has committed treason, and when he comes and his vision frays at the edges, his hands holding Jon’s (Jeyne’s) hair, he knows he does not come with impunity. His Jon will punish him, and Robb can only imagine when that will be. When Jon will rage and fight and hit him, because Jon has been loyal, Jon is loyal, maybe not to him, but to the Night’s Watch.

He knows he commits no fault by mourning a love unconsummated, but Jeyne is shaking beneath him, and he only feels guilty. Robb slumps, falling into Jeyne’s hair and whispering his love.

But not for her, no.

For Jon, _only Jon._

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda wanna follow this up with heavy angst wherein one or the both of them die.
> 
> I really hope you guys liked it.


End file.
